A Song of Lead and Laser
by flashman63
Summary: The Mojave and the Capital are about to be turned upside down- so is Westeros. Some freak incident sends two very different Wastelands cascading through time and space, to arrive in the Seven kingdoms just as A Game of Thrones kicks off. Rated M for violence and language, and implied sexy times Jon Snow x f!LW.
1. Chapter 1

Recruit Augustus of Flagstaff leapt from one sandstone boulder to the next. To his back was Fortification Hill and the Legate's Camp, Caesar's chosen site for the assault on the West. Before him satthe rocky cliff and hills of the east bank of the Colorado. With him walked nine other recruits, all clad in the same armor, carrying a machete and a gun. Himself, he was carrying a caravan shotgun- on his last patrol near Cottonwood Cove, he had happened across some Profligate sleeping near a dead fire. He had had quite a few bottle caps- he traded them at the Fort for six Aureus. He also got this brand new caravan shotgun- it was as if it had never been used before. He looked forward to getting a chance to use it.

And it looked as if he just might get such a chance. Lookouts at the Fort had sighted a column of smoke rising out of the hills to the East- what should be Legion territory. Smart money was on escaped slaves. But his fellow Legionnaires had speculated... not even a slave would be idiotic enough to escape, and then set up camp so close to the Fort. You would have to be an utter imbecile to do that. Some thought it was an NCR Ranger camp- or a trap set by them. One way or another, they would have to go scope it out.

"Keep up the pace, swine!" The Decanus said in an attempt to motivate the patrol. These boulders were hard on the feet, and it was common for deathclaws to wander this far north up the banks of the Colorado. A few recruits slowed down every time the wind blew, in case a Deathclaw was breathing down there neck. The Decanus kicked one of the recruits in the groin to keep him moving. Most of the recruits would rather face a deathclaw then an angry officer any day.

As the approached the source of the smoke, the band slowed. The Decanus waved for Augustus and two others to come closer. When they got to him, he whispered "Here, take these stealth boys. Sneak up on them, see who they are and what there doing, and if you can, get the jump on them."

The Recruits nodded. Each one took a stealth boy and, once the field was activated, became like the ghosts of Boulder City. The crawled over the boulders, between narrow passes, and under natural arches, inching ever closer towards the mysterious folk who had started the fire.

Augustus perched on top of a boulder, and saw the men before him. They wore garb similar to that of a Slaves, but... different somehow. Tanner, and with a wrap of cloth around there heads, so as to shield it from the sun. Each man he rich and smooth olive skin, and greasy black hair. They all laughed, passing a bottle of wine around the circle. Slowly and methodically, Augustus climbed down the boulder, towards the strange men. They were definitely not NCR, but at the same time definitely not slaves. And they did not look like any locals, in either appearance or clothing.

Once he was within spitting distance, he stood up, and turned off the stealth field. With the loud electrical noise that came with it, he growled "Freeze Profligates!", aiming his caravan shotgun at the back of one of there heads. Moments later, his comrades revealed themselves, drawing machetes and putting them around the mens throats. Each man looked as if he had saw a ghost- and they all stared at the caravan shotgun.

"Do you think they are the slaves?" Asked one of the recruits.

"We didn't have any slaves missing, according to the Decanus- once we figure out who they are, I'm sure they will fetch a fine price back East"

At the mention of slavery, one of the mans eyes widened- the one that Augustus was holding a shotgun to. Fast as a rattlesnake, he drew his sword, and spun around. As his hand lashed out, Augustus squeezed the trigger. A dragons roar and a puff of smoke later, and the stranger was splattered on the ground, his neck spitting a geyser of blood onto its companions as it fell. Each of them gasped, and one- a woman, Augustus realized- began swearing at them. One of the Recruits hit her over the head, and that shut her up.

At the noise, the rest of the patrol came with weapons drawn. The Decanus, after looking at the strange folk for a moment, ordered the unit to escort them up to the Hill.

As the dust settled, Augustus picked up the wine. He sniffed it- it smelled wonderful. Like fresh wine he had once had from the orchards of the West. But this smelled... different somehow. And on the ground, something shining caught his eye. As he bent over, he realized it was one of his shells. And then he saw it- something that looked like a pre-war book, except now scarred with bone, blood and buckshot. As he bent over to pick it up, he turned to the cover. It said:

_An Atlas of Dorne_

-

Cass sat in the Mojave Express. But outside, she heard a commotion. When she went out, she saw something strange- a tall, slender animal, nothing like a Brahmin, with a man sat on it. It had hair the color of sand, and a long furry mane the same color. NCR Troops pointed guns at the two, as the creature bucked up and down, making wild noises at the Brahmin, who appeared equally sppoked.

Thinking about it, she realized she knew what the creature was- they called them 'horses'. She had seen it in a book she read as a kid, once. But they had all died during the War.

"Shit keeps getting weirder and weirder around here." With that, she took a shot of whiskey, and went back into the outpost.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king's justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran's life.

The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran's skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king's justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy. His face was covered with strange scars, scars that did not look like any sword or animal bite that Bran had ever seen. And his eyes...

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he'd seen all this before. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

Bran's father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.

There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning. The man told a frightening story- that he had seen the Others, and things he described them doing to his fellow Watchmen made Bran's blood freeze inside him. But then things got... strange. In his flight south, he described odd things... as he fled south of the Gift, the Kings Road just... stopped. Before him sat land where nothing would grow, in a straight line dividing it from the normal, albeit barren, northern lands. He babbled about two-headed aurochs, of Slavers and Savages with swords spitting fire and thunder, of a massive statue holding a rounded sandwich, and a colossal Citadel, next to a shining but utterly abandoned and horrifying span of buildings. These vivid descriptions would stick with Bran afterwards.

His Father simply stared at the man, his expression implacable. But Bran could see something in his eyes...

Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. "Ice," that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man's hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.

-

"The deserter died bravely," Robb suddenly decided. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother's coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. "He had courage, at the least."

"No," Jon Snow said quietly. "It was not courage. This one was dead of fear and madness. You heard the story he told, Stark." Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.

Robb was not impressed. "The Others take his eyes," he swore. "He died a madman, but a brave one. Race you to the bridge?"

"Done," Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.

Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man's eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robb's laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.

-

They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.

The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him. "Gods!" he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword, his face twisted in horror.

Jory's sword was already out. "Robb, get away from it!" he called as his horse reared under him.

Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. "She can't hurt you," he said. "She's dead, Jory."

Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.

By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. "What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy was saying.

"A wolf... and...," Robb said, uncertain at the other.

"A freak, and a demon," Greyjoy declared.

Bran's heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers' side.

Half-buried in bloodstained snow, two huge dark shapes slumped in death. Ice had formed in the shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman's perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father's kennel.

And the other thing... Bran nearly began crying at the sight of it. Seven feet tall, a mouth full of jagged teeth, a head with two long curved horns, and claws as long as Bran's forearms.

"This one is a direwolf" Jon said.

Theon Greyjoy said, "There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years. And what in the Seven's name is the thing with it?

"I... I don't know," Jon admitted, voice shaking just the smallest bit

Bran tore his eyes away from the monsters. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb's arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb's chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. "Go on," Robb told him. "You can touch him."

Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, "Here you go." His half brother put a second pup into his arms. "There are five of them." Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.

"Direwolves and Demons loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."

"It is a sign," Jory said.

Father frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. "Do we know what killed her?"

"These long gashes on its side- looks like it came from those claws" he said, pointing towards the thing. "And it got its throat ripped out. And... these." He lifted up it's arm, exposing it's underbelly. In it, one horn of a stag was embedded. Another was in the Direwolf.

A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the claws uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.

"I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," he said. His voice broke the spell.

"Maybe she didn't," Jory said. "I've heard tales . . . maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came."

"Born with the dead," another man put in. "Worse luck."

"No matter," said Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too."

Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.

"The sooner the better," Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. "Give the beast here, Bran."

The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. "No!" Bran cried out fiercely. "It's mine."

"Put away your sword, Greyjoy," Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be. "We will keep these pups."

"You cannot do that, boy," said Harwin, who was Hullen's son.

"It be a mercy to kill them," Hullen said.

Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. "Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation."

"No!" He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father.

Robb resisted stubbornly. "Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week," he said. "It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough."

"She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse."

"Lord Stark," Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. "There are five pups," he told Father. "Three male, two female."

"What of it, Jon?"

"You have five trueborn children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

Bran saw his father's face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.

Their father understood as well. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked softly.

"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father."

Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. "I will nurse him myself, Father," he promised. "I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that."

"Me too!" Bran echoed.

The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.

"You must train them as well," their father said. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, Father," Bran said.

"Yes," Robb agreed.

"The pups may die anyway, despite all you do."

"They won't die," Robb said. "We won't let them die."

"Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."

It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.

Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.

"What is it, Jon?" their lord father asked.

"Can't you hear it?"

Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.

"There," Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf and demon lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.

"Look at it... the Demon was pregnant too!" In his arms he held a miniature, much paler version of the thing that had killed the bitch.

His Father stared at it. After much thought, he said "You may keep it. Same provisions as those with the Direwolves, only you must allow the Maester to examine it."

"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This thing will die even faster than the direwolves"

Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This 'thing' belongs to me."


	3. Chapter 3

He was a stream of data. Ones and zeros, represented by the flow and absence of electricity, surged across his mind. He flew down wires and transistors, briefly settling within a camera or a computer screen, but quickly moved on. It was no easy task running a city all by your lonsesome- even if you were nearly omnipresent, like Mr. House was.

At one camera, he found a dead hooker from Gomorrah dead in the alley next to it. A King from Freeside crouched over her. Mr. House frowned from within his cryogenic pod, or at least it felt like he did. Business like that should be left inside the casino, not dragged out. He went to a securitron, and sent the command for others to follow. The man was dragged off kicking and screaming, and the body was concealed until there was less of a crowd around. Not the optimal solution, but it would have to do. Back to his wires, he supposed.

Down through thousands of cameras Securitrons he went, checking diagnostics, and then quickly moving on. This was his life. He stopped at Victor- he saw that Courier leaving the Doctor's house. Good- Victor himself had proposed keeping the man alive, talking about seeing something in him. Note to self: thought House, that robot is far to smart for anyone's good. Consider downgrading.

And back to his wires it was.

As he went through the hundreds of securitrons, he stopped at one. This- Unit 13-7- had been patrolling just beyond the borders of the vaguely defined region called the 'Mojave Wasteland'. Checking for Crimson Caravan and the Gun Runners, just in case the NCR started taking any large weapon shipments. But this one was on it's back- and over it stood two boys. They were like nothing he had ever seen since the Bombs fell. Each one had dark, smooth olive skin, with garb most similar to a Spaniard, or perhaps a Moroccan, but somehow they were... different. He could not quite place there accents, even with his Old World knowledge.

Each boy looked straight terrified. "It lit up! It lit up!" One cried, staring into what House realized was now a Securitron's face.

"What do you think it is?" Asked the second boy, much more awed then hysterical like his companion. "It's like a Magic Lantern... A man from Essos showed one to my Lord Father"

Magic lantern? Lord Father? Had the Mojave traveled back in time? And what was Essos? He scanned his records for it, and came up empty handed. No news paper clippings, no tribals recorded, nothing at all. He even scanned through old novels, ranging from romance to fantasy. Nothing, or at least nothing he'd managed to save. How curious thought House.

"Well whatever it is, we need to leave it alone! What if it's a monster?" Asked the hysterical boy.

"We should tell my Lord Father- he'll know what to do!" Declared the other boy.

"Lord Wyl hasn't ever seen any monster!" Said the other. "We should leave it be!"

House decided to intervene. A tribe right along NCR trade routes would be very advantageous in the coming months and weeks. He put his full concentration into that Securitron. his static face popped onto the screen. Both of the boys screamed.

"Hello boys... I am Mr. House. Do not be afraid of me- I am a man like you. Would you, ah, take me to Lord Wyl?" He asked.

After a long silence, the brave boy said "What are you? Did you say you're a Maester?"

Annoyed, House told him "I have told you, boy. I am a man. Now, bring me to Lord Manwoody!" He said.

The boys looked at each other, and looking back at Mr. House, nodded. They grabbed the two arms of the Securitron, and pulled it to its feet. After several moments of uncertainty, House adjusted the weights and gyroscopes that made up the center of gravity, finally bringing him to balance on his one wheel. Off we go, then! Tally Ho!" He said in his best cheerful voice, as he and his reluctant companions rolled and trotted along the sun baked plains.

-

People in Wyl pointed, whispered and screamed. This was no mere village, House had realized- this was a whole city. This close to the Mojave, it would be impossible to hide a town of this size. A great sandstone fort stood ahead of him.

-

"Lord Wyl." House said. It was as if he were in an old world fantasy novel. He tried to figure out how to get the mono-wheeled Securitron body to bend at the knee. "My name is... House. I come from a Nation to the south... the State of Las Vegas, or New Vegas as many call it."

The Lord was attempting to hide his feelings- Dagos, of House Wyl he was called- of fear and terror at the strange being his boys had brought back.

"You speak of madness... Maester." He said. "To the south there is only mountains and desert! I hunted there myself."

"Well... it would seem things have changed." And House knew it. Few others in the Mojave had probably noticed, but as night fell, the stars were all wrong... they were different. The moon wa still there and the same, but the stars... he did, however, still manage to find several satellites. Currently he had his supercomputers attempting to figure out what had happened. If House's calculated intuition was correct (and it always was- the House always won), he wasn't in Kansas anymore, as an ancient film had said. He was in a whole new world... the odds had changed, and all bets were off.

"I am aware of us. To the north of us, we thought it very much the same. But apparently not..." House said.

"I will not believe it! I cannot beleive it!"

"Lord Dagos... am I not all the proof you need?" House responded. Whispers cascaded across the room, and Lord Dagos was deep in thought.


	4. Chapter 4

The Wanderer stood at the edge of Canterbury Commons, along with the assorted townees and Wasters, gawking at the sight before them. A perfectly straight line- on one side, irradiated and blasted soil. On the other, rocky terrain, permeated by actual trees- no, not those shriveled black things, but actual trees.

They had been shown pictures in the Vault.This particular kind was said to grown only in far northern areas- place like the Soviet Union, where Reds ran wild, or Canada, land of Socialists and Schemers. But not in Washington, DC- though Wanderer quickly learned during his talks with Moira (she may be annoying, but she is a smart lady) that something called 'Nuclear Winter' had made large swaths of the world warmer or colder- and Washington was now eternally a bit chilly.

But something in the soil, something special in the Nukes, had irradiated the soil so thoroughly that nothing could grow at all. Thank God so few animals had survived the Nuclear Apocalypse in DC- left over food made up the entire ecosystem. If everything relied on it, then it all would have been scavenged years ago No one had ever talked about trees, aside from some legends up north. Were these those legends? No, it couldn't be. The line was perfectly straight, and the Canterburyans were equally mystified.

Wastelanders were slowly wandering across the line. New territory, places where there might be food. Other folk were too terrified- who wouldn't be? Lucky Harith, probably the craziest of all the Caravan Merchants, had decided to venture into the unknown. A new market to pedal his wares. The AntAgonizer and the Mechanist, the people who the Wanderer had come here to deal with, had apparently also set off into the unknown.

The Wanderer considered going with them- but she had a job to do here. She had a dad to find, and she had a whole lot of obligations- he was supposed to head to Arefu, to help Moira with that book of hers, to go to the Mall and 'Fight the Good Fight' as Three Dog put it.

She walked over to a diner nearby, and sat on a plush little stool.

"What'll it be?" asked the man behind the counter.

"Gimme a Nuka."

"That all? Nothing stronger?"

"I don't drink. That shit will kill you."

The guy shrugged, and brought her her Nuka Cola. As she was finishing up, she heard a commotion outside."What in the..." she looked outside, and saw something strange. Something that looked like a Brahmin . but skinnier, gigantic, no visible growths, and only one head! On it's back was a frightened looking man wearing black, waving a spear around.

"Ah, shit..." the Wanderer muttered. She drew her 10 mm and shot up a psycho...


End file.
